Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

major changes in our lives. I didn’t want to overburden you with
this additional worry.”
So instead she waits until we’re almost here. When I can’t get
away.
I snatch the T-shirts off the bed before she can restack them in
order of shade and hue. Color coding is so not my thing.
“Whatever,” I say, not really meaning it—I mean, she did keep
this a secret for over a month. A month! “I’m over it.”
There is a tall dresser in the corner of my room, and I try to pull
open one of the middle drawers while balancing the enormous stack
of T-shirts in my left hand. The drawer does not cooperate and it takes
a monumental tug to pull it open, sending the T-shirts tumbling.
After I pick the T-shirts up off the floor I proceed with putting
them away.
The dresser is the closest thing my room has to a closet. Other
than that I actually kind of like the room. Like the rest of the house,
the furniture is seriously old—the sturdy, made-to-last kind—and
the floor is age-worn tile in the same dark brown as the furniture.
The walls are bright white plaster and they feel cold when I touch
them. I can’t wait for our boxes to get here so I can add some of my
own color.
“Phoebe,” Mom says like she’s disappointed that I’m not spilling
my feelings all over the tile floor. “You can’t bottle up your emotions
inside. Talk to me. Are you worried about fitting in?”
“Look,” I say—fine, I shout—as I slam the drawer shut, “drop the
shrink act. I’m fine. I don’t need psychotherapy or a Rorschach test
or an open dialogue. Just point me to the computer so I can e-mail
home.”
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